


The Blood is Life

by parapraxis



Category: Dracula - Big Finish Productions, Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7261300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parapraxis/pseuds/parapraxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Inspector R. M. Renfield is investigating the murder of a woman suspected to be another victim of Jack the Ripper when he encounters a strange man at the scene of the crime who will forever change his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Whitechapel Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on which version of Dracula you read, watch, or listen to the time periods can change. I am mostly adapting this version of Dracula from the Big Finish audio drama starring Mark Gatiss as Dracula and Ian Hallard as Renfield, but moving the timeline from 1897 to 1891. I will also be using some of the original events involving Renfield from the Bram Stoker novel. 
> 
> Mostly inspired by [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/468c2c030c86c590e5e7452665a2740e/tumblr_o8s7gweaQG1v3j42ko1_1280.jpg) gorgeous picture.

_Unofficial Report – Detective Inspector R.M. Renfield_  
_13 February, 1891_  
_Whitechapel District_

_At approximately 2:15 this morning, the body of an unidentified woman was discovered by PC E. Thompson under the archway of the Great Eastern Railway in Swallow-gardens with a terrible wound in the throat. PC Thompson contends that the body had not been there when he’d passed the spot not fifteen minutes earlier._

_PC Hyde, PC Hinton and PC Elliott were on patrol in the neighbouring areas and assisted PC Thompson upon the blow of his whistle. After interviewing PC Elliott, who had been at the adjacent Royal Mint-street at the time of the murder, I am uncertain what to make of these events, for PC Elliott attests to the fact that he heard no cry, nor struggle, prior to PC Thompson’s whistle. Surely, in such proximity to the scene, the officer would have heard something._

_Local medical examiner, Dr. Oxley was called to the scene, as were DI Flanagan and myself. Nearly an hour had passed before I arrived in Swallow-gardens to examine the body myself. Even as I write these words, I cannot make sense of what I saw. Already there are whispers that the infamous Jack the Ripper has returned, but this murder seems incongruent with those of his past victims. The woman had not been put on display, as had the others, nor had she been mutilated beyond the wound in her neck. Neither, it seems to me, is the cut to her throat seemingly the primary cause of death. In all my years on the force, never have I seen any such violent crime where not a single drop of blood had been spilt upon the ground. It is almost as if the body had been drained of blood before her throat had been cut. I shall have to wait for ME Oxley’s report for conclusive evidence for the cause of death._

_At this time, there are no suspects in the murder. I intend to return to the scene later this evening in an attempt to recreate the events as evidenced by the reports of the officers on duty._

_Perhaps it shall shed some light onto the matter..._

A thick fog had rolled into London at dusk, temperatures hovering around 14c. The blanket of white was an added hindrance for Renfield as he retraced the steps of the officers on duty the previous night. His eyes couldn’t penetrate the eerie mist as clearly as the patrolmen might have seen, forcing him to make inferences rather than account to hard fact. The night was still—nary a gasp of wind stirred the air around him, and the fog seemed a damper for sound.

Exhaling a breath as Renfield stood at the corner where PC Elliott had reportedly been at the time the whistle sounded, the inspector felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and a sense of unease came over him. Despite the soundless, empty streets, Renfield knew he was not alone. 

“Hello?” He called out into the darkness. Though he didn’t anticipate receiving a response, if the murderer had returned to the scene of his crime, hearing Renfield would spook him, and the Inspector would hear the man trying to flee. It would be a blind pursuit, given the thickness of the fog, but at least both men would be at the same disadvantage. Renfield hoped his speed and knowledge of the layout of the streets would aid him in the chase.

However, silence was the only answer to his call. Was the suspect waiting for the opportune moment to strike? Would he be so bold as to attack a policeman? 

Holding his lantern in the direction of the archway, Renfield thought he saw the mist swirl around the figure of a tall man in a top hat. Then--as if it has been spoken directly into his ear--a strange voice uttered his name. Moving towards the archway as if compelled by some unknown desire, Renfield could see the shape of the man coming more and more into focus with each step.

“Sir, I am Detective Inspector Renfield. Please identify yourself.” 

Without response, the man calmly turned and stepped into the darkness of the archway.

All of Renfield’s training and instincts told him to pull his weapon, but he could not will himself into action. His feet continued to move forward until he’d reached the mouth of the archway. The light from his lantern illuminated the tunnel only long enough for Renfield to catch the gleam of red eyes before the stranger gave a small wave of his hand. A sudden breeze kissed Renfield’s cheeks, and extinguished the flame in the lantern as if it were no more than a candle, casting him into complete darkness. 

Long, slender fingers curled around Renfield’s outstretched wrist, pulling him forward with surprising strength. In his surprise, the Inspector dropped the lantern, which clattered noisily to the ground, the glass shattering upon impact. His back was pressed against the hard, cold brick, and though he could hear the sound of the other man breathing directly in front of his face, he could not feel the stir of it. 

Body trembling with fear, Renfield could hardly find the ability to even speak. “Wh-Who are you?”

“All in good time, Mr. Renfield,” the sultry, foreign tones had an almost calming effect over the Inspector, and Renfield soon began to relax under the hands that held him firmly against the wall. “There is a matter I wish to discuss with you. A matter of great import to me.”

“I must warn you, sir, that I am a man of the law. Should any harm come to me--”

“Shhh…” Fingertips pressed softly against Renfield’s lips, and he whimpered slightly in response to the chill. “Quiet now, Mr. Renfield. No harm shall come to you...if you obey me.”

The stranger’s face moved closer, swimming into view through the darkness that surrounded them, and Renfield was struck into stillness by the hypnotizing gaze. Readily, he found himself verbalizing his compliance in the most queer way. “Yes...master.”

“I have...disposed of the criminal you seek. I can see in your mind you question the true way the woman died, and I shall show you the truth of it if you return to me your loyalty.”

“My...my loyalty?”

“Serve me, Renfield, and I shall reward you. I shall make you mine, and you shall hold the honour of standing at my right hand for eternity.”

Renfield swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Somewhere in the rational part of his mind, he knew he was in grave danger, but his mind could not wrap itself around the impossible things this man had shown himself capable of thus far. It could not reason with the fact that the stranger had claimed to know his thoughts, or that he had promised the Inspector eternity. Neither could Renfield understand his own draw to the man, the intensity of his avidity to acquiesce to each command. His voice seemed not his own as he heard himself swear his fealty to the man before him. “I shall faithfully serve you, Master.”

In the next instant, Renfield’s head was being craned to the side and the strange man’s fingers were pulling the high collar of his shirt away before he leaned in. Renfield heard a soft hiss just before he felt the painful prick of something at his neck. In the same moment that he realized he was being bitten, an odd euphoria enveloped him and he felt pleasure unlike that of which he’d ever known before. He sighed softly, moaning as his hands gripped the other man’s arms, suddenly aching for more. 

Thoughts and memories that were not his own began to flood his mind, immediately granting him knowledge beyond his wildest imagination. This man--Count Dracula--was no man at all. He had existed for centuries, and would continue to exist for all eternity. Renfield saw his dark purpose, his reason for being in London, and his plan to move here and feed off the population. As a lawman, the part of Renfield that could still refuse the Count was horrified by the terrible images, but there was little he could do. Dracula had effectively trapped that part of Renfield’s mind deep within himself, locking it away forever, and awakening a new desire inside the Inspector--the desire to be like his new master. 

The Count graced him with answers to the murder that happened the previous night, as promised. Renfield could see Dracula’s memory of draining the woman of her blood, and leaving her to be found later. A man had come along, and--thinking--the woman to simply be passed out, slit her throat before moving her to the edge of the archway where PC Thompson had found her moments later. Dracula had been waiting when the man retreated to the other end of the darkened passageway, and he had shown very little mercy to the man who had defiled his kill. 

Renfield knew he would never be able to speak the truth of the matter, to finish his report and solve the case, but the lust that overwhelmed him erased every concern he had in the matter. The only thing he cared about now was doing his master’s bidding and achieving life eternal so that he and Dracula would never be parted. 

He could feel the Count in every cell of his body in a way that could not be explained. Their minds were connected so that Renfield could hear any thought Dracula wished him to as if he himself had been the one to think it. He felt drunk in the knowledge and power that now flowed through him, and when Dracula began to pull away from him, Renfield pulled him back in with surprising strength.

Kissing the Count’s lips and licking at the blood that stained his teeth, it wasn’t entirely clear if Dracula was allowing Renfield this moment, or if he lacked the strength to pull away. It wasn’t until the Count’s hands gripped Renfield’s shoulders and wrenched the other man more firmly into the brick wall, that Renfield realized he’d momentarily overpowered Dracula. The wonderment was short-lived, however, when he saw the blazing slits of fury of Dracula’s eyes.

“Forgive me, Master.” Renfield shrank away in cowardly remorse, slipping to his knees from under the Count’s fingertips as if in reverence to a god. His hands clasped before him as he turned his face up to the Count’s. “Please, Master, I want to be like you... with you. I will be your loyal Renfield forever.”

With unnatural grace, Dracula swept down, grasping Renfield under the elbows and lifting him once again onto his feet. Renfield gazed up at Dracula, admiring his striking features and wishing once more to kiss the other man’s lips. “When I return to London, I will call upon you, and you will come.”

“I will always come for you, Master.”

Whether by desire or by calculated design, the Count leaned in and pressed his lips to Renfield’s. His arms enfolded themselves around the smaller man, drawing his thick cloak around both their bodies. Darkness enveloped Renfield in both body and mind, stealing his consciousness and leaving him in a world of dark, terrible dreams. 

As awareness crept back in, Renfield opened his eyes to find himself in his own bed. The room was bitterly cold and he saw that the window was pushed open. He had no recollection of coming home the previous night, and the memory of the Count was too surreal to have actually happened, but he couldn’t shake the thoughts and feelings all the same. 

Pushing himself out of bed, Renfield moved to the window to close it and draw the curtains. He cupped his hands together, blowing warm air between them in an attempt to return some heat to his chilled body, when his sight caught upon a small blowfly. Renfield watched the the creature sluggishly crawl across the windowsill. It was not yet the season for flies to be in abundance, and he idly wondered what had drawn the little bugger out, when a strangely familiar voice spoke to him in his thoughts. “The blood is life…” he muttered with the voice in his head, fingers reaching for the insect before plucking it off the sill and inspecting it. “The blood is life…” 

Without hesitation, Renfield brought the fly to his mouth and swallowed it whole.

TBC


	2. Jonathan Harker

Several times over the course of the day, Renfield tried to complete his unofficial report of the murder. He had learned that the woman’s name had been Frances Coles, and that the coroner’s report had come back as inconclusive. There had been several contusions to her head that the coroner suspected were caused when trying to subdue the woman, but Renfield knew that they had formed when Dracula had let the corpse fall to the ground without care. All wounds, except the bite marks--which had been all but erased by the knife’s blade--had been post-mortem. 

Renfield also knew he could not speak the truth of his knowledge. If he wasn’t immediately institutionalized, he would become the laughing stock of Scotland Yard. He wished the Count had never granted him the answers to the mystery. It was a secret, he suspected, he would have to take to his grave.

Each time he thought of the Count, Renfield’s fingers passed idly over the marks hidden just under his collar. The memories of Dracula seemed even foggier now, almost dreamlike. He might not have even believed them were it not for the marks and his newly acquired desire to feed off of living things. Although...decidedly _not_ humans. The thought of taking one’s life in the same fashion that the Count did was horribly grotesque and unspeakable to him. But small creatures, like the fly that had found it’s way to his window that morning…those would surely suffice. Of course, he would need to consume quite a few in a day’s time if he ever hoped to be like the Count, but the world had these creatures in abundance. He would more than have his fill.

Pulling his fingers away from his neck as if burned, Renfield pushed back from the table where he sat working on his report, nearly toppling the wooden chair. What was happening to him? These thoughts--immortality, enslaving himself to Dracula, lusting for him in the most unholy of ways--couldn’t be his own. What had the Count done to him? 

“Renfield.” As if mere thought had materialized him, the Count’s voice sounded just over Renfield’s shoulder, drawing out a frightened gasp as Renfield spun around to face him.

Blinking his eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, Renfield’s shrewd mind was struggling to comprehend. “Master. H-How did you get in here? The door...the door was locked…”

Dracula was waving his hand softly, dismissing Renfield’s alarm and questions as trivial, “I desired one last meeting with you before my return trip home in the morning.” Drawing a folded piece of parchment from within his overcoat, the Count held it out to Renfield. “I would ask of you to assist me in procuring a permanent estate. One with close proximity to the metropolis. This is a list of my...needs.”

Renfield took the parchment and carefully unfolded it. “I-I’m afraid I cannot offer much expertise in the way of finding you a home. I am but a policeman, not a solicitor.”

“I do not expect _you_ to find the home for me, Mr. Renfield, merely hire for me the solicitor who will.” As the Count spoke he drew nearer to Renfield until the two were standing toe to toe. Renfield drew his eyes up from the parchment and into the crimson orbs that seemed to shine even in the dim light of the oil lamp on the table. 

“Jonathan Harker?” Renfield said aloud the name which the Count had spoken silently into his thoughts. He could see a memory of the man walking the streets of London in the company of a young woman, and could feel the strange lusts come over him at the sight of both the man and the woman.

“I trust you will not disappoint me.” 

There was a strange twinge of jealousy deep within Renfield, and he found himself nearly frantic with the thought that his Master had chosen another; that after this request had been carried out, the Count would have no further use for him.

“Why do you worry and fret over matters you cannot understand?” The Count queried, truly perplexed by Renfield’s envy.

Renfield only felt further hurt by the words, how could he not understand the Count’s desire for the Harkers? It was the same desire he held for the Count; a desire that was, obviously, not returned. He turned his back to Dracula, as if breaking eye contact would break the connection between their thoughts, and laid the parchment on the table next to his report. “I will not disappoint you, Master. I will seek out your Mr. Harker in the morning.”

Fully expecting the Count to vanish as mysteriously as he appeared, Renfield was surprised when he felt the other man at his back, long fingers at his neck, slipping his collar away from the skin. “I am far from finished with you, my pet. Do not despair so.”

The Count’s lips fell upon Renfield’s neck, filling him with that glorious rapture that seemed beyond his own capacity. His head felt weighted upon his neck, canting to the side as a lustful sigh parted his lips. “Master…”

Dracula’s free hand encircled Renfield’s waist, wrenching him closer before sliding up to hold the man across the chest, keeping him firmly in place. Renfield felt the prick of fangs reopen the marks on his neck, and that surge of shared power rippled through every cell in his body. So bizarrely intense was it, that all Renfield could do was stand there, his hand gripping the Count’s as the man drank from the opened vein. 

Renfield ached to be touched, yearned for his desires to be sated, and whimpered his frustrations. “P-Please, M-Master.”

Whether in reward or out of his own desire, the Count’s hand slithered down Renfield’s flat stomach and tore at his trousers with preternatural strength, rendering them useless as they fell to the floor in scraps. His fingers found Renfield’s hardened length, and curled tightly around the base. In his already heightened state of arousal, Renfield doubted it would take long to find his climax.

Dracula continued to feed at his neck as he stroked Renfield with a sure hand. The man felt he was practically swimming in a sea of pleasure, tumbling beneath the waves of bliss. He was reassured of Dracula’s desire for him, despite whatever it was he wanted with the Harkers, and knew that he would do absolutely anything his Master required of him.

Head spinning from lust and lack of blood, Renfield’s breaths came in hot, heavy puffs as he fought the pull of darkness at the corners of his brain. “Master…” he begged.

Lapping the flat of his tongue over the punctures at Renfield’s neck, his hand gave one final firm stroke, and he felt Renfield’s body tense as his orgasm found him. He could feel the warm seed spill out over his fingers just before the other man went completely slack in his arms. Letting go of his weeping member, Dracula swept the unconscious man into his arms, and--for the second time in as many days--carried him over to his bed. 

With care, the Count removed the blood-soaked shirt and found the man’s nightdress, slipping it over his head before he covered Renfield’s body with the heavy blanket. He indulged himself by sitting next to the prone form on the edge of the bed, feathering his fingers through the soft greying locks that adorned Renfield’s head, simply watching the other man sleep.

“If you please me, I shall reward you with all that you desire, my pet. You will have the honour of sitting at my right hand and we shall be as one for all eternity. This, I promise you. You will tell no one of my plans; no one shall know of my true nature. Defy me, and you will pay with your life.”

With a final caress of Renfield’s pale cheek, Dracula was gone.

A hard, heavy pounding drew Renfield out of a deep sleep. The mid-morning sun was streaming through the window, and if he weren’t feeling completely depleted of all energy he probably would have given more of a damn that he was beyond late for work. The pounding started again and, sluggishly, Renfield realized it was someone at the door.

Feeling weak and almost feeble, Renfield pulled himself out from under the warm covers, making his way to the door to find out who was so insistent upon seeing him. Upon pulling the door open, he found his Sergeant, fist raised to knock again. 

“Sir!” The Sergeant seemed surprised and taken aback by the sight of his superior. “Pardon me, sir, but...you don’t look well.”

“Not to worry, Dawes, I have just...taken ill, it seems. I shall be quite alright soon enough.” Renfield held the door open wider so the other man could enter. Dawes gave a slight bow of his head, removing his hat as he crossed the threshold. 

“When you didn’t turn up at the office this morning, I thought I should come ‘round. Make sure you were alright. Not like you to ever be late, sir.”

“As I said, I’ve merely taken ill and decided to have a lie in until it passed. I do thank you for the concern, Sergeant Dawes, but I assure you there was no need for alarm.”

“Of course, Inspector. My apologies, sir.”

Renfield only vaguely heard the other man as his eyes had fallen upon another blowfly, tracking it’s flight with hawk-like instinct. “The blood is life…” he murmured softly.

“Sir?”

Eyes snapping back to Dawes, Renfield turned towards the table where his report lay next to Dracula’s written list of desires for his real estate. He snatched up the unfinished work before marching back to Dawes and thrusting the stack towards his second-in-command. “I shall need you to review all notes on the case and complete my report. I find myself currently unable to attend to it.”

“Inspector--”

“Sergeant Dawes,” Renfield cut across the other man impatiently. “I have twice told you that I have taken ill. Now I am asking you to leave so that I may rest. I will return to work when I have fully regained my strength. Is that clear?”

“Aye, sir.” Dawes slapped his hat back on his head, giving a curt nod to the other man before turning on his heel to see himself out. Renfield waited until the door had shut behind Dawes before his eyes began to dart around the room in search of the fly. 

A soft, albeit deranged laugh trilled out of him as he saw the creature resting against the glass pane of the window. “There you are…” he purred, drawing near to it. “My beautiful...precious...gift.” 

With fluid finesse, Renfield plucked the fly just as it took flight again, holding it close to his face as he inspected it with reverence. As if the Count might hear him through the vessel of the fly, Renfield whispered his gratitude, then devoured the small creature. He savoured what little essence the fly’s blood would provide to him, feeling fortified by the sacrifice. 

Straightening himself with purpose, Renfield strode through to the bedroom and quickly dressed. When he was properly groomed and ready, he folded the Count’s parchment and tucked it into his own pocket before he headed out in search of Jonathan Harker. 

TBC


End file.
